against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.
The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.
And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.
BEGINNINGS
One Week Earlier
“Like a broken gong be still, be silent. Know the stillness of freedom where there is no more striving.”
—THE BUDDHA
CHAPTER TWO
Nashville, Tennessee
December
“Taylor, you’re doing great.”
Dr. Benedict had the laryngoscope deep down Taylor Jackson’s throat. The anesthetic they’d sprayed before the procedure made her tongue curl; it tasted like bitter metal. Who the hell could be a sword swallower? This was ridiculously intrusive. Though she didn’t hurt, she could tell they had something threaded into her. The thought made her want to gag. The doctor caught the motion and murmured to her, softly, touching her on the shoulder like he was gentling a horse.
“Shh, it’s okay. Almost done. Just another minute.”
She was tempted to get him a stopwatch. That was the third time he’d promised he was almost done. She tried to think of something, anything, that would distract her. The panic was starting to rise, the claustrophobic feeling of having her mouth open for too long, the knowledge that there was something…
“Okay, cough for me, Taylor.”
Finally.
The metal slithered out of her mouth. She felt like an alien, regurgitating a particularly indigestible meal.
At least she could breathe again.
The examination table was close to the wall. She slumped back for support and watched the doctor set aside his tools. The scope made a thunk against the metal of the tray, discarded, no longer an instrument of healing-by-torture, just an inanimate implement with no intent, no plot.
He patted her shoulder again. “Why don’t you get dressed and come on into my office. We’ll talk more there.”
She tried not to notice that he winced when he said talk.
She wasn’t doing a lot of that these days.
Taylor dressed, shedding the thin paper gown in a huff. Why she’d needed to get seminude for Dr. Benedict to look down her throat was a mystery to her.
John Baldwin, her fiancé, stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for her. Reading her mind, he smiled. “Because if you’d had a bad reaction to the anesthetic, or had a problem, he wouldn’t be able to take the time to get you undressed to stabilize you.”
She nodded. That made sense. She knew the logic behind it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
She watched Baldwin watching her, his green eyes full of concern, his black hair standing on end, the salt at his temples smoothed back. He was tall, six foot four, and broad-shouldered. She’d always thought him beautiful; it wasn’t an appropriate adjective for a man, but he was. Well proportioned, a full, teasing mouth, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. He was her everything.
Was. Had been. She didn’t know why she was thinking in past tense—he was still here, she was still here. Together. They were touching, holding hands even. But physical proximity means nothing when your world’s been turned upside down.
She was afraid of more than just her visible injuries. She was scared that the invisible ones, especially the brittle crack in her heart, would be what did her in. He’d lied to her about his past. She asked for one thing, loyalty, and he had failed her.
“Let me help you,” Baldwin said, and squeezed her hand as they started down the hall. She let him. It had been nearly a month since the shooting, and she was still wobbly. Head shots did that to you. A mantra that had been forced on her for weeks.
She ignored the fact that he was looking at her with that confused gaze, the one that said please, please, let me back in. As if he’d known what she was thinking. He did that sometimes, stole her thoughts right out of her head.
Oh, Baldwin. What have you done to us?
Dr. Benedict had left the door open. Baldwin held it for Taylor as she entered the room, then followed behind her. There was a lot of dark wood, a huge desk, a few framed photos and degrees. She sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
Dr. Benedict cleared his throat. “Okay. Good news first. I’m not seeing anything that indicates a permanent condition. The dysphonia responded to the botulinum injections—though your vocal cords are still bowed a bit, they are starting to adduct in the midline and when you cough. There are no signs of polyps or tumors. This is good news, Taylor. Your vocal cords are intact and working. When you were shot, when you fell, you hit your throat on something. That blunt force trauma is what caused the dysphonia. This isn’t a result of the bullet track, or the surgery. You were damn lucky. Your voice should come back.”
She shook her head and pointed at her throat.
“Taylor, I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is that the problem is no longer a purely physical one. The bullet didn’t penetrate into the vocal area of the brain, otherwise you’d really have some issues. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in your neurological profile, and the wound has healed nicely. Your balance is remarkably good, considering. You’re eating all right, sleeping all right, for you at least. The headaches aren’t getting any better?”
She shook her head. The pain left her breathless sometimes.
“That’s not entirely unexpected. They’ll fade in time. Rest, and no stress, that will help. But your voice…”
He broke off, and she braced herself. She was experienced in giving bad news. She got the sense she was about to get a huge dose of it.
“I think you may be experiencing a bit of what we call a conversion disorder.”
She shrugged. He bit his lip a couple of times, then continued.
“You’ve just suffered a major trauma, both physically and emotionally. You’re healing well, so I’m inclined to think that this continued dysphonia is non-organic, more of a…psychological disequilibrium, if you will. And as such, it’s much more treatable through some form of psychotherapy, combined with antianxiety medication. Which also wouldn’t hurt to help get you through the stress of…all this.”
Dr. Benedict actually waved his hand around in a circle.
Can you banish
